


An Annual Thing

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:41:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The anniversary of Starsky's shooting puts both partners on edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Annual Thing

It was a date that neither of then wanted to remember. Starsky freely acknowledged his own tendency towards superstition--he always enjoyed that little thrill of ancient fear when a black cat crossed his path or he accidentally stepped on a crack. But the memory of that day, one year ago before was too real, too terrible. He could throw half a dozen cartons of salt over his shoulder and it still wouldn't stop the day from coming or change what had happened. It didn't get celebrated or marked with a big red X on the calendar.

It came to the memory unasked, for Hutch anyway. In truth, Starsky had almost no memory of the day and Hutch had far too much.

Ken Hutchinson, watching his partner David Starsky pour a morning cup of coffee and linger over the donut selection like a true connoisseur, wanted to forget the date all together. But the big May fifteenth on his desktop day by day kept staring him in the face, taunting him to remember that terrible afternoon one year ago. It had been cool for mid May, a little foggy that morning clearing to a slightly smoggy day. The squadroom had been a chaotic clutter of paint cans and drop clothes, painters in the midst of the ten year repainting project. Most of the other detectives had fled, scrounging other offices to finish up their arrest reports. Starsky and Hutch, bored with a rare spate of lower than average homicides had started up a game of Ping-Pong much to the working painters' amusement and Captain Dobey's annoyance. An asinine game of country song trivia had accompanied the thwack of Ping-Pong until the harassed detective Captain had thrown them out, ordering them to find some criminals, do something.

They'd found something all right. Less than one minute after exiting the building, Starsky was cut down by a hail of machine gun fire by hired assassins posing as cops. He'd lain bleeding in the parking lot of the main LA police station in front of countless witnesses.

Seeing Starsky lying there, bleeding from nearly mortal wounds had torn Hutch's heart from its moorings. Even now, walking past the place in the parking lot brought back the mind numbing horror; the retort of the bullets, the smell of car exhaust and blood, the feel of Starsky's blood sticky and warm on his fingers. His partner, his best friend, his soul's twin had nearly expired right in front of his unbelieving eyes. But Starsky had survived.

Hutch wanted to celebrate his partner's return to consciousness-one week after the shooting. His first steps--over a month afterwards, and his discharge from the hospital a month and a half after that, but most importantly his return to work more than five months after the fateful afternoon.

The day of the shooting? No, he'd rather not have to even write the date down. It was physically painful, like a wound that couldn't scar over and heal. Even the constant evidence of Starsky's aliveness didn't always help. He was constantly on guard, sure that fate would conspire to rip Starsky away once more.

His emotions were all the more fragile since they'd taken their relationship a step further recently in a sexual way. This move had fulfilled Hutch's wildest wet dreams. Starsky's warm, willing body curled next to his was one of the few times he felt complete. No, he didn't want to remember May 15th, but he was unable to forget it.

"You ready to go?" Starsky bounced up, his blue eyes engaging, his curls wild. He held a glazed donut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"You're entirely too cheerful," Hutch grumped.

"Cause you're too tense, Hutch. Don't dwell on the date. Move past it." Starsky emphasized the 'a' in past, giving it a bleeting tone like a sheep. It struck Hutch as funny and he managed a laugh.

"Sorry, you're right. It's just another day."

"See, there you go." Starsky waved the donut at the pink breakfast pastry box. The other detectives in the room had already taken their treats, leaving half a maple log, which Hutch detested and a cake donut with multicolored sprinkles. Starsky understood Hutch's pain, had tried all week to try to alleviate it, but there was no denying the inevitable.

"Take a donut, you'll feel better."

"You mean you will, Starsk. You know how that saturated fat makes me feel. You just want seconds." Hutch led the way out of the squadroom. "I'll just pick up a protein shake at Food for Life."

"Yuck." Starsky grimaced, as he always did at Hutch's food choices. It was expected, comfortable, exactly what was needed on May 15th. He was doing what he could to relieve Hutch's tension, but the best thing to do would have been to go home, curl up in bed together and do something to take their minds off the memories. Since that wasn't possible, he was determined to tease, cajole and coddle Hutch through the rest of the day. Make him forget the memories. His own were so vague, fragmented and mostly filtered through other people's eyes that he could ignore them during the sunlight hours. It was only at night that they came to haunt him. And now with Hutch lying next to him, they didn't come nearly as often.

The health food store was in the center of a revitalized retail block. Newly planted trees and fresh coats of paint had brightened what used to be an area on the edge of gang territory. Food for Life was flanked by a liquor store on the left and a flower store on the right, all covered by one large green and white striped awning.

"Look." Starsky pointed to a newly hung sign in the grocery's window. "There's sea kelp for sale today-and green magma." A pretty woman, taping up a second sale sign waved at them through the plate glass.

"I might have to pick some up." Hutch rolled his eyes at his partner, waving back at Rosemarie. He pushed open the door of the shop, calling over his shoulder, "Give me five minutes,"

"See ya in a few." Starsky sauntered cockily over to Callaway's Calla Lilies, a florist run by a sprightly older woman in her late seventies. He always took a moment to stop in and flirt shamelessly with the lady. It made her day, and his, too, for that matter. Reaching barely to the dark haired detective's chest, Marigold Callaway resembled nothing so much as a garden pixie perched amongst her brilliant floral displays.

"Mrs. Callaway!" he called, peering around a potted ficus tree standing directly in the center of the shop. Vases of tulips, carnations and a variety of exotic plants decorated one whole wall of the shop, giving the place a thick, floral aroma.

"Ah, David." The tiny woman came out from the back workroom, totting an enormous vase of long stemmed red roses, giggling coquetishly. "You always tickle my fancy." She tittered.

"Because you are my amour." Starsky leaned over the glass counter, his voice silky, a mysterious vaguely Eastern European accent coloring his words. "I cannot live without you." He plucked one of the roses from the vase she'd set on the counter, handing it over to her with a romantic flourish and a kiss on the back of her wrinkled hand. "I must see you every morning or my day is desolate."

"You're too much of a charmer." She patted his wayward curls, her eyes twinkling behind rhinestone encrusted cat's-eye glasses. "How is your partner? He's been so sad lately."

"Aww." Starsky shrugged, impressed at her astute observations. It grieved him how troubled Hutch was with the anniversary, but hadn't found anything yet that would console him completely. "Hutch just has too much stuff on his mind, he'll be okay in a day or two."

"I was afraid it was something serious." Mrs.Calloway broke the stem of the rose close to the blossom, then threaded it through a buttonhole in Starsky's shirt, her hand unconsciously touching the worst of the bullet scars on his chest.

"It was," Starsky agreed, glad his clothes hid the signs of his near demise. Her touch had been soothing, though and he bent down to giver her a kiss in thanks for the boutonniere. "But it's better now. Really, I don't know if Hutch just likes to come down here for the shakes or to see your granddaughter over there."

"Rosemarie likes him, too." Mrs. Callaway smiled, separating a large bundle of baby's breath to insert amongst the roses in the vase.

Starsky hid a smirk, if she only knew whom Hutch really wanted to spend all his time with. "She makes..."

Whatever Starsky was about to say was cut short by a frantic scream from the girl in question. "David! Grandma! Somebody help!" Rosemarie's voice was high pitched with terror.

Drawing his Beretta from the holster under his right arm as he ran out of the shop, Starsky beheld a sight both familiar and chilling. Two teenaged boys were squared off on the sidewalk, just opposite the parked Torino. The taller boy was a lanky, angry looking youth with black hair tied back in a ponytail, a black windbreaker emblazoned with the letters B and K entwined together like snakes and a wicked, gleaming switchblade in his right hand. The smaller boy who had his back to Starsky was wearing a blue jacket and brandishing a knife, but his inefficient swipes showed he didn't know how to use one. The element that scared Starsky to the core was Hutch stepping between the boys to intervene in the fight. Rosemarie was hovering just outside the battle zone, hands out as if to ward off an evil spell.

"That's Richard!" Mrs. Callaway cried, rushing forward to intercept the leather jacket clad boy, her grandson.

"Police!" Starsky declared, maneuvering in front of the two women, holding his pistol aloft. "Move apart and put down your weapons!" There was no response from the two combatants, but the flick of Hutch's eyes showed he acknowledged his partner's presence and was comforted by the back up.

Time slowed down until it was like watching a jerky, poorly edited nickelodeon film. Rosemarie darted forward to grab her brother's arm as the taller boy lunged at them, his knife in a downward slash to catch Richard's dominant hand. Hutch half turned to bodycheck the boy's move, but Rosemarie's appearance startled his, jostling Hutch's forward momentum.

The knife arched down, slicing through Hutch's leather jacket and shirt, finally cutting through skin like butter. It skidded along his lowest left rib before sinking all the way down to the shaft. He staggered, eyes widening in shock at the black haired boy's assault.

"HUTCH!" Starsky bellowed, launching himself at the black haired boy. Smaller, but more heavily muscled, Starsky had much more experience in street fighting. His tackle brought the teenager down with a bone-rattling jolt. They struggled for power only a few seconds before the crazed detective got the upper hand, slamming the boy into the sidewalk. The Miranda rights were a growled chant as Starsky jerked the boy's arms back, handcuffing him securely.

Behind them, Starsky could hear Mrs. Callaway and her grandchildren's voices, calling for an ambulance, comforting Hutch, asking what happened and why.

"Don't move," Starsky commanded, leaving his prisoner spread-eagled on the cracked cement. His heart was pounding so fast it was hard to breathe. How badly was Hutch injured?

"He started it!" Richard's voice cracked, still straddling the fence between adolescence and adult hood. "Zack's been tryin' to get me inta his gang..."

"Richard!" Rosemarie wailed, fighting tears as she held her wadded up Food for Life apron against the wound in Hutch's side, trying to staunch the bleeding. The blond man was sprawled across the sidewalk, his head on the curb, just below the Torino's rear wheel. The whole scene evolving into a cruel parody of the morning one year ago.

Starsky didn't want to turn around, didn't want to see Hutch bleeding, hurt. All the stories he'd heard, the vivid descriptions of his own shooting washed through him, leaving him weak kneed. It couldn't happen! Not today! But his need to see the face of the man he loved more than life itself overshadowed his fear.

If Hutch died...

Now he understood all of Hutch's terrors, the nightmares, his obsessive concern for Starsky's safety, and his rabid fear of letting him out of his sight. Hutch had only been away from his side for five minutes...

"Where's Starsk?" Hutch whispered, peering up at Rosemarie. With the bright sun behind her all he could see was a curtain of brown hair haloed in gold. She knelt over him, pressing the blood soaked apron against his wound, all the while trying to avoid touching the knife still protruding from his side. His whole body was a mass of pain, waves of agony radiating out from the weapon's point of entry, sapping his energy. It was hell to take a breath, much less speak, but he had to try. Had to see Starsky one more time before he passed out. The significance of such a terrible wound happening on this most horrible of days was not lost on him. It was karmic fate rolling around to stab him in the gut. "S-Starsky."

The dark haired detective heard the whispered silibants of his name. The pain in the voice broke down the wall of fear around him so he was able to peer through a crack in his defenses to see that most loved face. Hutch's blue eyes were glazed but open and when Starsky knelt down to clasp his hand, those blue eyes found their target.

"Hey." Starsky's voice squeaked, almost betraying his terror. He wasn't used to being the one who comforted. Hutch was the strong one, the one who held him when he was hurting so bad or so scared he couldn't think straight. Starsky was the prankster, the one who had a joke of a wisecrack to defuse the tension. Only he couldn't think of anything funny. "What'd you go an' do, huh?"

"The bleeding's slowed," Rosemarie spoke. "Grandma called the ambulance and took Richard into the flower shop."

"Good thing." Starsky glanced over at his prisoner. The boy's black lank hair had slipped from the rubber band in the scuffle and hung haphazardly over his pimpled face. He was swearing vehemently, but hadn't moved, his hands still cuffed behind him.

"Starsk." Hutch grimaced with the effort to speak, wanting his lover to look at him, to really see him. "S-sorry, I'm so s-sorry."

"Hutch! What'er you sorry about?" Starsky wiped the clammy sweat off the blond man's forehead, relieved to finally hear the wail of sirens in the distance. He belatedly realized he hadn't called in an officer down to dispatch or to report his collar. The imminently sensible Mrs. Calloway had done his work for him and for that he was eternally grateful. Now, sitting next to Hutch, the blood on the sidewalk soaking into the fabric of his jeans, he didn't think he could function in any official police capacity. The rational part of his brain was obliterated by a continuos loop of film showing Hutch doubled over as the knife entered his flesh. "You didn't do anything, Hutch."

"It's today...it's b-because it's today," Hutch insisted, wishing his head didn't feel like a balloon floating up into the sky.

"Hutch." Starsky hiccuped halfway between a sob and a laugh, "I'm the one who's s'posed to be superstitious. It's not an annual thing. No way in hell am I gettin' shot again next year."

"Promise?" Hutch sounded so wistful it was all Starsky could do not to lean down and kiss his sadness away in front of Rosemarie and the arriving paramedics.

"I promise." Starsky nodded, blinking away the tears in his eyes. "It wasn't your time. It was just that idiot Richard's lucky day."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ER doctors called Hutch one of the luckiest stabbings they'd had in a long time. The knife did relatively minor damage to his stomach, resulting in only a few days stay in the hospital. Although bending, standing and walking still hurt more than he liked, Hutch was ready and waiting for his discharge even before Starsky showed up. He'd been given a week's supply of painkillers, a menu for the bland food his stomach could tolerate and warnings to take it easy, and come back next Monday for a check up. He didn't think he'd feel completely healed until he could curl up next to Starsky in his big bed and just relax into his best friend's embrace.

Starsky, who still had the creepy crawlies when he passed the ICU where he'd lived, and nearly died, for over a month the previous spring and summer, was jubilant to bypass that particular wing of the hospital and head straight for Hutch's semiprivate room to bring him home.

"Heard you needed a lift." Starsky sauntered in, presenting the patient in the wheelchair with a huge bouquet of irises and orchids.

"You brought me flowers?" Hutch asked in surprised, admiring the delicate purple and white blossoms.

"Nah, Mrs. Callaway sent 'em. She's so thankful you saved Richard's scrawny little butt."

"Starsky," Hutch warned.

"Hey, the kid's been suspended from high school. Then, he was actin' like that Zack was forcin' him in to the gang world..."

"Rosemarie said the gang members were hounding him." Hutch recalled the conversation he'd had with the girl while she'd blended a concoction of soy milk, bananas, wheat germ and protein powder. A shake he'd never even gotten to taste.

"Yah, well, that's cause he was already in tight with the West Street Boys-turns out the Black Knights-of which your friend with the knife was a member didn't take to kindly to."

"Think you can make that sentence any more grammatically incorrect?" Hutch teased.

"Always the critic." Starsky rolled his eyes. "Ready to go?"

"Get that duffel over there." Hutch pointed to the overnight bag with his few possessions inside. "So what's happening with Richard?"

"I-uh-kinda fixed him up with the principal at New Versions High." Starsky looped the duffel over the wheelchair handles, pushing Hutch out into the hall. "Thought a new location might turn him around."

"Softy."

"Hey, it worked for me when I was fourteen." Starsky was glad Hutch couldn't see him right then. He felt both sympathetic for the boy's plight and angry as hell that he'd gotten Hutch stabbed. "Couldn't let my sweetheart Mrs. Callaway down."

"Starsky, you're a nice guy." Hutch smiled. "Don't ever let anybody tell you otherwise."

"Hmmm." Starsky brought the wheelchair to a stop in the patient loading area where he'd left the red and white Torino. "Better tell that to my partner-a tall blond guy, answers to the name o'Hutch. He always complains about my car, how I dress, how I act..."

"Don't make me laugh." Hutch groaned, pressing a hand to the bandage on his belly. Breathing hurt, but laughing brought tears to his eyes. He didn't mind a bit. "And I never said you weren't a nice guy."

"How bout handsome and adorable?" Starsky came around in front of him to take Hutch's weight as he stood awkwardly before sliding into the front seat of the car.

"Handsome, adorable and a good lay." Hutch grinned at him as Starsky leaned in close to pull the seatbelt carefully over him without it pressing on the tender incision.

Starsky was so close he could feel the warmth of Hutch's breath when he spoke, smell the clean scent of his hair and almost hear the beat of his heart. He bent his head down to brush his lips on Hutch's. Just the barest contact in public, but it was enough.

"I bet you say that to all the guys." Starsky straightened before he started anything more intimate, handing Hutch the bouquet and storing the duffel in to back seat.

"You'd be wise to take a compliment when it's offered, Starsky." Hutch reclined his seat to a more comfortable position for his aching side and long legs. "Another may not be forthcoming for a long time."

"Oh, you mean it's an annual thing?" Starsky burst out laughing.

"Exactly."

FIN


End file.
